


Territory Negotiations

by Desiderii



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Biting, Cat/Human Hybrids, Coffee Shops, Coping with PTSD, Coping with Touch-Aversion, Finger Sucking, Five Times, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plans, Rough Sex, Scratching, Sex Negotiation, Sexitimes are not a magic cure-all, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desiderii/pseuds/Desiderii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <i>Kill for a Cuppa</i> is the the number-one parahuman stomping ground in the city. For Tony, a feral, it's one of the only neutral territories he's willing to frequent (where frequent means both drink coffee and nap on the couch as well as proposition likely strangers for a quick fuck in the alley). When his attempt to publicly seduce a gorgeous golden tabby named Steve Rogers backfires, Tony is forced to decide how far past 'lust' and into 'the real Tony Stark' territory he's willing to go. </p>
<p>(A <i>the Avengers are catpeople who work in a coffee shop</i> AU that is, more or less, subtitled <span class="u">Five Times Steve Rogers Left Without Tony Stark, and the One Time He Didn't.)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for my 'I'm going to practice WRITING SEX' month in July 2014. I was given the prompt 'Steve/Tony, catboys', and in writing this thing I figured out that 1) I'm very sheltered because I had never even heard of the term intercrural before (which is wild because I've seen it everywhere since) and 2) I fail at writing *only* sex scenes because worldbuilding.
> 
> Content warnings for implied past sexual torture and cultural oppression based on neurodivergence. You know. Like you have in fluffy fics about catboys sexing. Clearly. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, percygranger (woo!).

Technically, Tony was not on the prowl, but a neutral observer would have never been able to tell. He licked the crumbs from his fingers with tiny, delicate, _calculated_ strokes. Two licks on each fingerpad. Pause. Sweep the room with lowered lashes. One lick on the side of each knuckle, a lengthy process. Pause. In a nearby table alcove was a man who, for all appearances, was not paying attention, except for one large golden tabby ear firmly swiveled in Tony’s direction. 

One lick in the crevice between fingers, as suggestive as Tony can make the motion. The man’s fluffy, gold-furred tail twitched. Interest. Annoyance. Tony was interrupting the man’s coffee shop reading time, but the book in front of him had remained open to the same page for the last ten minutes. 

Ten minutes ago, Tony had begun to eat his raspberry crumble.

One long stroke up each side of each finger. Tony made each stroke noisy. 

The man gave up all pretense and turned in his chair to stare unblinking at Tony with blue eyes ringed with artificial gold. He even closed his book. Everyone else in the shop ignored Tony, human and parahuman alike, all too used to his shenanigans, too busy basking near the sunny windows, or hidden around one of the many partitions and platforms filled the shop with tiny nooks.

For the finale, Tony enveloped his entire index finger with his mouth and drew it out a fraction of an inch at a time. He’d gotten laid more than once just by licking his fingers clean and holding eye-contact with his quarry. The longer they watched, the better the odds, and Tony had four more fingers to seduce his current audience.

Tony met the golden tabby’s gaze and smiled around his middle finger before continuing on to the next. The man was blond and looked tantalizingly familiar, with a chiseled jaw and the kind of physique that only renting a cot in the back of a gym could grant. The gold rings around his irises screamed ‘lab-spawn domestic’, and if the guy was beneficiary of all that recent emancipation legislature, then it was Tony’s ordained task to introduce him to the joys of being with a feral. 

The man stood from his chair before Tony had finished cleaning his thumb, gathered his things, and - with one last look at Tony - left the coffee shop. He twitched his fluffy tail out of the way of the door at the last possible second and slunk off down the sidewalk as fast as his legs could take him. 

Tony froze, shocked out of his little playact, and turned to give the Russian Blue behind the counter his best shocked face. “What’d I do?” 

Natasha, her gray-blue fur more gray than blue despite her breed, twitched her tail. “My coffee shop isn’t your sleazy hookup joint.” She gave Tony a hard look and proceeded to ignore him.

She knew more than she was telling. Tony knocked his tail against the nearest empty chair, filling the mostly-quiet coffee shop with a repetitive thwack-thump, but it wasn’t enough to draw her attention. She fussed with the steamer wand on the espresso machine, restocked the pastry display, and wiped down every table including Tony’s, and said nothing. Only when the chair thumping caused one of her human customers to call her over to complain did Tony’s sulk become more than she could bear. 

Natasha strode over to Tony’s table and thumped down a macaroon, though whether in apology or pacification he had no idea. Her words carried the low grit of annoyance. “Steve got out of the labs late. Next time, how about less proposition and more coffee date?” 

“Late?” Tony stopped his tail-swinging immediately and shoved the macaroon into his mouth before she could change her mind. “What do you mean late?” 

“I mean ‘the lab he was at required the Department of Parahuman Activities to intervene with machine guns and an executive order to force the mandatory release six months after the emancipation date supposedly kicked in’ late. He’s only been out for maybe two weeks.” 

Tony swallowed coconut and stared. “Seriously? He was part of the crackdown on the Arctic Circle labs?” 

“Seriously.” 

“Damn.” Tony stared door-ward thoughtfully. “Talk about a dry spell.” 

“For the love of-” Natasha rolled her eyes and flattened her ears back. She let her claws peek from their sheaths. “You hurt him and I will scratch your eyes out.” When that particular threat didn’t make Tony so much as blink, she added, “And I’ll ban you from the shop.” 

Tony held up his hands, palms out. “Hey, now. There is no need to get drastic.” 

Natasha regarded Tony for a long moment, her gold-ringed green eyes narrowed, and bared her teeth in a vague semblance of smile. Tony had an excellent view of just how long her canine teeth were. According to Clint, she’d definitely killed people with them. Ripped their throats right out. Whatever lab she’d escaped from hadn’t been breeding domestics. 

Tony gave her a pointy-toothed smile of his own, but also sat back in his chair, all casual like. Just in case.

Casual or not, Natasha took his gesture as the retreat it was. She nodded once in satisfaction and returned to her station at the cash register just as the bell over the door rang. 

The feeling of having just escaped with his life unnerved him. Tony decided (perhaps a little late) that discretion was the better part of valor. He packed up, shoved his tablet into his laptop bag and saluted both Natasha and the just-arrived black and white shorthair. Clint, co-owner and helper with lunch rushes, saluted back and headed toward the kitchen.

Halting in an alcove by one of the squashy couches near the window, Tony kicked the side to wake the occupant. The reedy-looking man he disturbed scrambled for his glasses and shoved the massive creamy fluff of his own tail out of the way so he could blink up at Tony. Bruce was probably the only parahuman Tony had ever met who could use their own tail as a winter duvet. Tony would melt into a puddle of sweat and compulsive grooming if he tried to combine a southern exposure with the fluff volume of Bruce’s tail. 

“Up and at ‘em, sunshine,” Tony announced, earning sleepy glowers from two parahumans napping a nearby couch and the blond human woman sandwiched between them. “Bruciebruce, light of my life. It is time.” 

Bruce didn’t bother to rush. He yawned. He stretched. His mild, green-ringed-brown gaze darted past Tony and Tony’s laptop bag to the lunch rush line and then to the table where Golden Tabby Steve had sat reading his book until Tony had come in for his morning caffeine fix. He offered Tony a raised-eyebrow look of disapproval as he fought his way off up out of the couch cushions. 

“What happened to the tabby?” 

“His name is Steve and he’s from that batch of domestics the DoPA set loose from Arctic Circle Inc. a couple weeks ago.“

Eyebrows raised, Bruce said, “So you _do_ read the news.”

“On occasion I am informed.” 

“Miracle of miracles.”

“But,” Tony said, choosing to ignore the mockery, “Natasha said he’s a regular here already.” 

From behind the espresso machine, Natasha said, muffled, “I told you no such thing.” 

“She implied it,” Tony amended.

“Neither did I imply it! You slander me, Tony Stark. I do not disclose detail greater than first, his name, and second, why you should leave him alone.” Natasha pointed one unsheathed claw at him while holding a half-heated carafe of latte.

“You suggested a coffee date.” 

“I-” Natasha paused, flummoxed. She looked over her shoulder to Clint for backup, but he was busy at the toaster with a dozen open packages and jars of sandwich fixings, too focused on his task to be of any help. She looked back at them, ears folded in annoyance. “I... perhaps suggested a coffee date.” 

Tony turned back to Bruce. “There, see?” 

“Considering that she owns a coffee shop-” Bruce said, gathering his own things so they could go. “I would imagine that Natasha suggests coffee by reflex at this point. Maybe you should leave this Steve guy alone like Natasha says.” 

A tiny pixie of a parahuman breezed in the front door and said, “Always listen to Natasha.” Her overlarge ears and whip of a tail were covered with tiny curls of smoky auburn that matched the curls in her bob. 

Tony rescued his tail as she clicked past him and Bruce in her expensive-sounding stilettos. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about,” he complained.

“Good afternoon, Jan,” Bruce said with a small smile.

“‘Lo, Jan,” Clint said over the pastry counter as she took her place in line. “Start your usual?” 

“Please.” Jan directed a thousand-watt smile at Clint. The smile dropped when he headed back to the sandwich-fixing counter and she turned to address Tony. Clipped and tart, she said, “I don’t need to know what we’re talking about to know that Natasha’s going to be right about it.” 

Even people Tony didn’t know and had no part of their discussion nodded in agreement with that statement, including everyone waiting in line and a couple of the baskers near the windows he had thought were asleep. He supposed he should be grateful for that the privacy nooks meant not everyone in store could agree. 

Tony lashed his tail, betrayed by strangers. “Go ahead, gang up on me. I’m leaving.”

Bruce put his hand on Tony’s shoulder in mock-sympathy. “Woe is you.” 

Tony huffed. He really had no idea what Natasha - and, granted, pretty much everyone else - were on about. He kept his goatee well-trimmed and while his whole full-gold eye thing might be a little off-putting, granted, he thought he cut a decent figure overall. And he smelled nice. 

At least he thought he smelled nice. Tony frowned at Jan. She was up on her tiptoes to lean on the sneeze-guard and flirt with Clint. Tony opened his mouth only to have Bruce slap his hand over it, his claws ever-so-slightly unsheathed. The tips pricked at Tony’s cheeks. Tony subsided with an frustrated flick of his tail.

Bruce waved farewell to the others, planted on hand on either of Tony’s shoulders, and spun him towards the door. With a growl beneath his breath, he marched them both outside.

“Do I smell nice?” Tony asked Bruce once they were out past the patio tables and onto the sidewalk proper. A little girl, the only one to overhear Tony’s comment, stared at him as her mother dragged her on. 

The people outside were mostly human, and they went about the day with shopping bags and briefcases and unreadable expressions. Tony placed Bruce between him and everyone else in the hopes of avoiding incidental contact with random people. Bruce’s sheer volume of fluff was an excellent shield.

Bruce took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, visibly pained by Tony’s logical leap. He inhaled deeply, taking in Tony’s scent, and sighed. “Yes, you smell nice. And nobody was implying that you were lacking - except in tact, perhaps. Did the article you read mention that Arctic Circle Inc. was one of the labs that violated the Xavier-MacTaggert Convention, because I’m fairly sure that would be enough for Natasha to warn you away from Steve.” 

Tony’s steps slowed, because no, no it hadn’t. “Xavier-MacTaggert. As in the ‘don’t fucking torture your parahumans’ Xavier-MacTaggert Convention?” 

“One and the same, though the lab in question is spending a lot of money to try and keep the charges out of the papers.” Bruce polished his glasses on the bottom of his shirt and shoved them back up his nose. “Steve’s experience could be anywhere from general abuse to what are essentially war crimes, and you don’t proposition someone like that while they’re trying to enjoy a cup of coffee and a book. You’re lucky Natasha didn’t throw you out by your tail. It’s- her shop is neutral ground, Tony. It’s supposed to be a parahuman sanctuary.”

Tony scrubbed his hands over his face and pulled at his ears in distress. “How does Natasha know-? Shit.” Guilt nibbled at his guts. “I fucked up. I thought he was, you know, interested. Alert. Ears forward and all that. Eye contact.”

After shoving them toward the patio rail to stop blocking foot traffic, Bruce paused to think about that last bit. “Seeing as how I was asleep, I’m not going to be able to pass judgment. He wasn’t there when I woke up, though, which is pretty hard to misconstrue.”

The growl Tony released rumbled from deep in his chest and cleared the sidewalk around them of people. Bruce just shook his head at him. 

“Look,” Bruce said, “Just don’t bother him. You should be able to handle that, right?” 

Tony flicked his tail once more in annoyance. “Right.”


	2. Second

Tony stopped by the side of Steve’s table, summoned up his most winning smile, and held out one of Natasha’s finest mint crumbles. “Sorry about the other day.” 

Gold-ringed-blue eyes snapped up to Tony’s face as Steve abandoned the book he was reading. It dropped to his lap, place lost. Steve’s ears flicked back in wariness and his gaze darted toward the door of the coffee shop. “What about the other day?”

“Your name is Steve, isn’t it? I’m-”

“I know who you are.” Steve interrupted. “What do you want?” 

“Peace offering for inadvertently driving you out.”

Steve caught the crumble’s scent and raised his eyebrows at Tony. “Mint?” Steve’s ears relaxed a fraction and despite the wary note in his voice he almost sounded… amused. “You’re seriously offering me a crumble?” 

Perhaps Tony hadn’t considered his choice of pastry overmuch. “Is that inappropriate?” 

“Very inappropriate, considering how you tried to seduce me with one. In public, no less,” Steve said. His body language returned to neutral and he picked up his book. Flipping to his lost page, he took his time in placing his bookmark between the leaves.

Steve then looked back up at Tony, held out his hand, and wiggled his fingers. “Hand it over.” 

“Granted, public seduction was possibly not my most brilliant idea.” Tony deposited the plate into Steve’s waiting hand. “At least you do seem to be less… angry than anticipated?” 

Tony hadn’t meant for the last to be a question.

Steve raised his eyebrows. “You thought I was angry?” 

“You weren’t angry?” 

“I was-” Steve paused and picked up his fork. “I was hungry, I think. Sit.” He indicated the other chair at the table. 

Wary, Tony sat and curled his tail around the leg of his chair. Tony’s butt hit the chair, and the moment it did, Steve gave him a small smile and threw a salute back toward the coffee shop’s counter. 

Lo and behold, there stood Natasha behind the pastry case, drumming her claws against the glass as she waited for the signal to come rip Tony’s throat out. At Steve’s ‘all clear’, she looked almost disappointed.

‘Seriously?’ Tony mouthed at her. 

Natasha drew one finger across her throat meaningfully, gave him a pointed look, and then spun her finger to indicate he should turn right back around. Tony gulped and did as instructed, more than willing to avoid an impromptu tracheotomy, and he found Steve watching him through his lashes as he devoured the crumble.

‘Devoured’ wasn’t hyperbole, either, much to Tony’s fascination. Steve ate swiftly and messily, one heaping forkful at a time, and used the spaces between bites to breathe and little else. He kept his gaze steady and almost accusing while he ate, as if worried Tony might be inclined to steal the pastry back. 

Faced with starving-alley-cat behavior, Tony rethought asking for a nibble and very quietly slipped the extra fork he’d brought into his pocket. Instead, he asked, “You were going to have me killed?” 

Steve almost choked on his crumble. Tony was half out of his chair in an instant, but Steve waved him back down. He recovered after a few good coughs and wheezed in Tony’s general direction. “Natasha offered to boot you if I started to get antsy again, not kill you.” 

“How well do you know Natasha?”

“Enough to know that ‘make him disappear’ was a polite euphemism for a permanent solution,” Steve said, able to breathe once more. “I turned her down.” 

“Much obliged,” Tony said. “Really. I have maybe six lives left and I already owe her three.” 

“Three, really?” Steve asked, but it was a rhetorical question. He put his head down and once more began to shovel crumble into his mouth. 

Tony remained in awe at how fast the plate-sized slab of gooey mint disappeared. He’d ordered a double (hope springs eternal), but the way Steve was eating, he should have sprung for a quad. The fork in his jeans pocket jabbed at his thigh and served as a pointed reminder that he really had no idea about Steve’s damage. His only clues were that Steve still ate like he was starving, and responded poorly to public come-ons. 

The shop was mostly full this morning, as usual. The college crowd that trickled in before and after classes kept Natasha busy, and today she had one of her other co-owners, a black shorthair named Maria, with her behind the counter to help run the espresso machine. From the looks she kept throwing his way, Natasha had told her about Tony’s faux pas and whatever goodwill he’d earned since the last time she’d shouted at him had just become worthless. 

Beyond human college kids and those upon whose shit list Tony was a permanent resident, however, the crowd consisted mostly of the parahuman. For a place called Kill for a Cuppa whose logo was a small cat sharpening a pawful of bloody claws, that was more or less reasonable. The nonstandard privacy nooks made the interior seem smaller, cosier, and not-coincidentally hid the numbers of coffee shop occupants, muting both sound and blocking sight, and parahuman-designed music took care of the stray conversations when the place was busy. Aggression and territoriality in parahumans was easier for Natasha to manage when the only sense she really had to worry about was smell, and both she and her co-owners were excellent cooks. Kill for a Cuppa was one of the few havens for ferals in the upscale part of town.

Ten seconds later, Steve set down his fork and finally took a proper breath. 

“You okay there, buddy? You were turning a bit blue,” Tony commented, leaning back in his chair to sprawl. The privacy alcove the Steve had chosen for his reading was lined by pictures of cats mid-stalk, all fluid lines and implied tension. “I was afraid you’d pass out before you finished.” 

“I’ve had larger meals,” Steve said. He placed his fork diagonally across the center of his plate and shoved it to the middle of the table. There weren’t even crumbs left. It was a crumble. There were _always_ crumbs left. Tony’s eyebrows rose. 

“I’ll buy that,” Tony said, and because he’d never been one to tiptoe around awkward questions, he asked, “Offering accepted?” 

“Offering, yes, apology, no.” 

The distinction stymied Tony. His ears drooped and he squinted at Steve like logic puzzle that really should have a few more clues. “Which means-?” 

“The way I see it, you were licking your fingers,” Steve clarified. “So perhaps ‘apology, yes’ for making me uncomfortable. I just don’t think you need to apologize for-” he halted and swiveled one ear away from their conversation. 

“The… implications?” Tony ventured, still confused. “Are you saying don’t apologize for the whole ‘I’m sucking my fingers like I’ll suck your dick’ thing?” 

With no hint of a blush, Steve said, “That’s what I’m saying.” 

Tony sat back in his chair and lashed his tail against the leg. “Huh.” 

“Huh,” Steve echoed, slightly mocking, and made as if to pick up his book again. The chirrup and drone of the parahuman music drifted over the loudspeakers. 

“Hold up-” Tony flattened his hand over the book to stall him. The other patrons of the shop might not be able to hear them, but one never knew what Natasha was capable of. With one quick glance over his shoulder toward the counter on the off chance she was still waiting to leap over the barrier, he continued, “So if I asked you to accompany me back into the alley to fuck like ferals, that might actually still be an appropriate question?”

“Appropriate? No,” Steve said. “Entirely unwelcome? Also no. Though technically I’m a domestic.”

“Law and semantics,” Tony waved that little detail away. The whole surreal conversation had Tony half-hard in his jeans and alternately patting himself on the back for the brilliance of apologizing and feeling intensely guilty that he was seriously thinking of taking advantage of a guy maybe three weeks back from lab hell. Still, nothing ventured… “If you are interested, though, what’s stopping us, and what can I do about it?” 

Steve brushed Tony’s hand away from his book. The brief contact, skin against skin, cause Tony’s hair to stand on end. His hackles rose and his tail fluffed out. Contact didn’t happen between parahumans unless they were already in a relationship - friends, lovers, family. There was scent to think about, and heightened sense of touch, and the sometimes desperately inhumane backgrounds that they shared. This was _casual touch_ between near-strangers and Tony wanted to call a halt to all proceedings and hold the back of his hand to his nose until he figured out what the hell was going on. 

Tony pulled his hand back like Steve had burnt him. He stared, wide-eyed. 

Steve froze. A look of consternation crept onto his face as he stared back. “I thought-” Steve began. “You wanted to-” 

“I know, I know,” Tony said, desperately trying to cover his reaction, extreme even for a feral. He smoothed his tail through his hands and dragged his palms over his ears. “I’m- that’s different.” 

Steve said, “I see,” but his tone said he didn’t. “I’m sorry, I won’t.”

The bell over the door rang before Tony could reply. The silver tabby, shorthair, knew the place well enough to enter all the way to the counter before looking around. Tony thought he recognized him.

Steve was already out of his seat by the time the newcomer spotted them. The loud scrape which sounded as he shoved his chair back drew the other patrons’ attention, even in some of the other nooks. Even Natasha paused in making change, and she was used to outbursts.

“Sam?” Steve asked, concern evident. His words carried, and heads began to peek up out of the back privacy nooks, ears swiveling. “What’s wrong?” 

“Steve-” Sam said, relief evident. “You need to come with me.” 

“What happened?”

“Wanda got picked up for vending without a license and is being charged as a feral.” 

With all eyes on the scene by now, every parahuman in the shop reacted, some more angrily than others. Even Tony found himself loosing an involuntary hiss. Any parahuman designated ‘feral’ could kiss due-process goodbye.

“She has papers-” Steve cut himself off and swore. He bristled, ears back and angry, and the sheer physical presence he exuded was a far cry from the Steve that sat curled up with his book and scarfed down his food. “They don’t care.” 

“They don’t care,” Sam confirmed. “And I can’t convince them I don’t get government money for the headcount at my house.”

Steve swore again. “You think they’ll listen to me.” 

“If they don’t, we have more problems than trying to get Wanda back.” 

“I’ll be right there,” Steve said. It was the work of moments for him to gather his book, and by that time Sam was already out the door. He hesitated, however, when he caught Tony’s confusion. “Thanks for the crumble. I’ll explain next time.” 

Tony nodded, on edge, not entirely sure what was going on, and in no way less horny after that little display. “I’m sure I’ll see you?” 

“Good.” Then the bell over the door rang and Steve was gone. 

The coffee shop’s other patrons subsided back into their nooks and conversation at the more public tables picked up again. Despite the apparent return to normalcy, however, an undercurrent of discontent added a sharp scent beneath the smell of coffee. The Cuppa, more than anywhere in the city, was filled with those with strong opinions about feral issues. 

There was more to Steve than met the eye, just-freed lab domestic or not, and Tony could feel his curiosity kicking in. A good old internet trawl was in order. 

First thing first, though. Tony fished the fork out of his pocket and sighed in relief.


	3. Third

Late one afternoon, Tony and Bruce entered the coffee shop and walked straight into the middle of an argument. 

“Say you will, Natasha. You’re perfect.” Jan was clinging to the cash register with both hands, her curls tousled, and she had pitched her voice to be loud enough that Natasha’s fingers twitched with the effort of not silencing her. Every other patron who’d expected a normal, quiet day watched the back and forth with pricked ears. Jan shamelessly used their audience to her advantage. “Come over to mine, try a couple of things on, and we’ll see if we can’t work up something about the Cuppa’s success.” 

“You don’t need me,” Natasha grit out. She looked hunted, ears back, shoulders lifted and tense. Even so, she directed a thin smile at Bruce and Tony in greeting. “And if you hadn’t taken leave of your senses, you certainly wouldn’t want me. Not in front of humans.” 

Jan scoffed and raised her voice past ‘loud’ and straight into ‘performative’, reveling in her current status as the center of attention. “Half the current line at my boutique is _based_ on you, of _course_ I need you. And just think - you’ll be sending off hundreds of young Jans and Natashas into the cutthroat world of entrepreneurship to maim and conquer, with parahuman needs in mind.” 

The argument seemed to strike home. Natasha’s ears flicked and she fell silent.

Tony made his way toward the counter, Bruce in tow, and didn’t bother to hide his curiosity.

This late in the day, the place was filled with regulars sipping their lattes as slowly as possible. Every visible table sported some sort of laptop or tablet, and the atmosphere had taken on a quiet, industrious quality far different from the chaos of mornings. Near the back, Phil, the last of the four co-owners and a man whose white-tipped gray fluffiness rivaled Bruce for sheer mass of fur, sat and played checkers with an aging human woman while there was downtime before the dinner rush. An occasional parahuman face peeked out of the an alcove, as interested as Tony was in watching the Jan and Natasha show.

“I do like maiming and conquering,” Natasha finally said.

Jan’s triumphant grin lit the room. “I knew you’d come around.” 

“Hate to interrupt,” Tony said, falling in line behind Jan. “But if you’ve settled whatever you need to settle-” 

Jan didn’t relinquish her spot in front of the counter, she just turned to lean against the cash register and gave Tony a beatific smile. “Settled, and to my satisfaction. You may pass.” 

“What did you agree to?” Bruce asked Natasha as she confirmed their usuals and took their money.

“Someone set up a series of professional presentations on how she started her company and why its focus on parahumans is part of its success.” Natasha wrinkled her nose. “Someone also over-extended herself and needs me to save her ass.” 

“It’s all about passing on good business practices to the next generation,” Jan said, serene. 

“Are you sure?” Natasha raised an eyebrow and gave her a sardonic smile. “Are you really, really sure?”

Tony claimed his drink from Natasha and commented, “The PR wouldn’t be terrible, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

Both Natasha and Jan chuckled. Bruce just patted him on the back with a sad shake of his head. 

It took Tony slightly longer than he wanted to admit to connect the dots. When he did, however, he sighed. “’Come back to mine and try on my fashions.’ Right.” Tony made a vague gesture with his hand. “Really, Jan? In public no less?”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Finger Fellatio,” Jan said. “But no- I really am in dire need. Anything else is just bonus.” 

“You weren’t even there for the finger thing. Nobody was there for that.” Tony pointed at Bruce before he could speak his words of dire betrayal. “You were asleep.” 

“I was there for that,” Natasha said with a smirk. “It wasn’t pretty.” 

Tony twitched his tail and complained, “It wasn’t supposed to be pretty. It was supposed to be hot.” 

“Did Steve think it was hot?” Jan asked innocently, her ears perked forward. 

“I don’t know, he got hungry!” 

The others stared at Tony with various expression of confusion and, in Natasha’s case, alarm. Her ears went back, and she developed a look as if she had bitten into something suspect and wasn’t quite sure yet if it were dangerous or not. Her reaction in particular piqued Tony’s interest.

Natasha stared at Tony and, ignoring his quizzical frown, narrowed her eyes and twitched her upper lip back from her fangs.

“Hungry?” Bruce asked.

Tony, eyes still on Natasha, took her hint and backtracked. “Ah, you know what, nevermind. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have,” was Natasha’s reply as she cut across another of Jan’s questions. “Away with you all, I need to stock.” 

Tony now had even more questions pertaining to the mysterious golden tabby named Steve, but Natasha’s dismissal was as thorough as it was abrupt, and she had her head in the pastry display before he could protest. He stood holding his coffee, unwilling to leave the counter with mysteries still afoot. Lashing his tail in frustration, he debated knocking on the glass and annoying her until she snapped. The only problem with that plan was the non-zero chance he’d end up in the dumpster out back, a casualty of curiosity that not even satisfaction could resurrect. 

“Well,” Jan said after a moment of awkward silence, “I got what I came for. Ta, boys.” Her fluttery little wave was self-mocking, a deliberate caricature of a stereotypical fashionista.

“Jan-” Bruce tried to catch her sleeve, but she evaded him and was out the door before either of them could do more than blink. 

Tony gave Bruce a questioning look. 

After one last glance at the pastry case where Natasha was studiously ignoring both of them, Bruce took it upon himself to drag Tony off to one of the couches near the front windows. The squashy, avocado-green monstrosity was unoccupied and covered in shed fur, and it was Bruce’s favorite for sunbathing. Tony attempted to tug himself free so he could set up at a nearby table like usual. 

Instead, Tony found himself swallowed by an overstuffed cushion with hair that wasn’t his all over his black shirt, and Bruce flopping down almost on top of him. There were three people on the planet that Tony accepted this kind of friendly proximity from, and some part of him always felt like he was falsely advertising how cuddly he actually was. Even in the Cuppa where most everyone was tucked away into their nooks, their desire for privacy nearly as great as his own, it made him self-conscious. Tony flailed to keep Bruce’s ear floof from going straight up his nose, and protested the whole couch treatment with a hiss.

“Shush,” Bruce scolded him. He then proceeded to say nothing else until he decided he was properly situated. His head rested on Tony’s thigh, his legs went up onto the far arm of the couch, and he threw an arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun streaming in the windows. Once Tony was trapped with his laptop bag just out of reach, Bruce lifted his arm to peer up at him and, in a low voice designed to be swallowed by the shop’s dampening acoustics, said, “Why did they flip when you said ‘hungry’?” 

Tony took a sip of his coffee and eyed Natasha as she served a new patron. The other parahumans in the shop might not hear them if they talked normally, but one could never be too cautious where Natasha was concerned. “They? You think Jan knows something, too?” 

“I think Natasha is selective with her confidences and that you won’t catch her by surprise again.” 

“ _I’m_ surprised I caught her in the first place,” Tony said. “She doesn’t ever really startle. Either she was very badly thrown or she has an ulterior motive.”

“But what ulterior motive?” Bruce pulled off his glasses and replaced his arm across his face. “You think maybe Steve was using innuendo and it caught her off guard?” 

The very idea tickled Tony. “You think so?” 

“I asked you first,” Bruce said dryly.

The bell over the door rang and drew the attention of most of the shop. Even if there had been no bell, Steve would have drawn eyes regardless. His jeans were illegally tight and his fur had the gloss of the freshly groomed. The inside of his ears and the back of his neck blushed a faint red as he scanned the crowded coffee shop and found most of the occupants of the public tables staring back at him. 

Steve spotted Tony on the couch, however, and lifted a hand, a relieved smile spreading across his face. He quickly picked his way over between tables and came to a halt next to Tony and the sprawled Bruce. 

“Tony-” Steve greeted him. “I was hoping you’d be here.” He then paused, flicked his tail, and glanced down at Bruce.

Tony tried to extract himself from Bruce and the ugly couch’s clutches, but Bruce refused to move. After fifteen seconds of fruitless struggle, Tony gave up and introduced him instead. “My friend, Bruce. He’s- uh…” Tony trailed off and just stared at Steve. After his puff-out the last time they’d spoken, Tony had a pretty good idea what this looked like. “My brother from another mother?” 

Bruce, lying deliberately still and damnable heavy, snorted just loud enough for Tony to hear, but Steve relaxed a bit. 

“I see,” Steve said. “I wanted to talk with you, but if you’re busy-” 

“He’s asleep,” Tony cut him off. “And one hundred percent likely to sleep like the dead through anything up to and including a riot and a nuclear strike.” He patted Bruce’s arm firmly and meaningfully. Steve didn’t see the very tip of Bruce’s tail twitch, but Tony did. He was going to murder Bruce. 

Steve wavered, his ears swiveling in indecision. 

“Pull up a chair.” Tony indicated a free one at a nearby table. “I’d offer you the couch, but-” 

“Oh no,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your friend. I’ll just…” He stepped away to grab the chair. 

Tony took the opportunity to lean over Bruce and whisper, “A little privacy, asshole?” 

“If you get hard while my face is this close to your crotch, I will claw you in the scrotum,” Bruce replied. 

“Your own damn fault,” Tony replied just in time for Steve to scrape the chair over and sit. He pasted a bright smile on his face and asked, “Everything okay with, er, Wanda? It was Wanda, right?” 

“You remembered.” Steve sat and arranged himself with elbows on knees and hands clasped as he leaned toward Tony.

This close, Tony could smell him despite the overpowering scent of coffee: coconut shampoo and metal, sweat and detergent and three different floral and fruit mixtures, like he’d scrubbed himself way more than once to rid himself of a scent. Tony couldn’t help but wonder if it was a scent only he could smell, because all Tony could register were soaps and Steve. 

Tony swallowed hard. “Kinda hard to forget. Feral issues are near and dear.”

Steve tilted his head in clear question. 

“I registered feral.” 

“How?” Steve’s jaw would have hit the floor if it could. “You’re… you. Natasha said you were a Stark.” 

Tony filed away the proof of extracurricular conversations on the topic of him. “It’s a hell of a lot easier to switch status the one way rather than the other. For feral, the burden of proof falls only on how nervous you make the registrar by being in the same room, and the one here is rather sheltered.” 

“Why?”

Even though ‘why’ was the next logical question, Tony found himself as unable to answer it as he had always been. He avoided Steve’s eyes and took a long pull from his latte before answering. “Do you really see me playing well with others?”

Something dark and intent passed behind Steve’s eyes. “Depends on who you’re playing with.”

Tony felt Bruce’s claws in his side, just out of Steve’s line of sight, before he realized how Steve’s low response had affected him. He reminded himself to breathe, and of Bruce’s threat of pointy bits near his near-and-dear to control that particular reaction. Although, he didn’t have to think too hard. Their current topic wasn’t one of his favorites, and he was beginning to regret ever bringing it up. 

“That’s the rub, isn’t it?” Tony offered Steve a self-deprecating smile and tried to play the whole thing off. “The rules change when you’re picky about… everything.” Bruce’s shoulders were tense against his leg, and Steve didn’t look any happier.

Steve said, “They’ve yet to prove feral is any more antisocial or dangerous than domestic in any legitimate study.” 

Tony had to admire just how very little judgment Steve managed to speak with when the content of his sentence was a flat condemnation. His tone was gloriously, exquisitely neutral, and Tony almost kissed him then and there on principle.

“And yet here we are, with a whole different set of rules assuming all sorts of things that aren’t true.” Tony’s grin slid sloppily onto his face, and he felt reckless-drunk despite the hour and the contents of his coffee cup. He showed his teeth, his canines as large as anyone he’d met, and let some of his charismatic facade drop. The Tony who didn’t go to great lengths to be social was sharp and reactive and obsessive and not at all polite company. He gave Steve a glimpse of that, let the challenge creep into his scent and his body language and said, his tone edged, “Feral suits me.” 

The regard Steve gave him sent shivers down his spine and he very much wished he had a pillow and not a Bruce in his lap. Bruce was an inconveniently-placed reminder not just that they were in public, but that Tony’s wires were well and truly crossed to even think about getting a rise out of his overdeveloped need to prove… something. To prove anything. Tony wanted to focus on Steve, not worry that he was going to bleed all over the couch when Bruce made good on his word.

Steve was all but weighing him, his expression intense with his brows drawn together just enough to dimple his forehead. He exuded presence nearly strong enough to taste, and every bit of it was focused directly on Tony and what Tony wanted. Tony half-bristled, ready to demand who’d died and made him king. His libido spiked under the intense regard, right along with his curiosity for what could happen if Steve ever agreed to exploring what else Tony might want. 

It was all Tony could do, but he remained silent and didn’t make good on any sort of challenge.

Steve said abruptly, “Maybe feral does suit.” 

“How gracious. This judgment pleases me,” Tony quipped, finally looking away and feeling strangely relieved as he folded away his instincts. “But look at that. I hijacked the conversation. Mea culpa.”

“It happens.” 

“So what the hell happened last time?” Tony asked. 

Steve withdrew physically. He sat back in his chair and crossed and uncrossed his arms several times before settling with hands on his thighs. “Right,” Steve said, let out his breath. “What happened last time. Right.”

Tony found himself with the suspicion that maybe their tangent had more to do with Steve’s reluctance than Tony’s self-acknowledged narcissism.

“Wanda?” Tony prompted. Bruce’s claws finally relaxed out of his side and Tony treated himself to a full breath. So sue him if he sounded winded when he said, “I did a little research, but not even the internet cares much about ferals, so I didn’t find much.” Neither about Wanda, or about Steve, which baffled him. If Steve was influential enough to spring young ferals from illegal holding, there should be something out there on him. There had been nothing he could find, though. Whoever Arctic Circle was funneling money into to keep their shit well buried was damn good. 

When Steve still didn’t continue, Tony added, “She’d been arrested.” 

“There was no formal charge, in the end,” Steve said at last. “She was flogging used cds from a blanket on the walking mall for spending money. She’s maybe sixteen, I think, and a bit rough around the edges. I’m not surprised someone called the cops on her. I’m also not surprised they tried to charge her as feral. Old habits die hard. She’s got no id, usually, and more often than not she’s ripped out anything in her stuff that’d point people back to where she’d come from.” 

Tony tilted his head. “That sounds like a runaway.” 

“Emancipated parahuman minor, both her and her brother, thanks to Sam, and he tells me it was tricky as all hell, which brings me to Sam.” Steve let out his breath. “Sam runs a halfway house for parahumans. Takes in domestic and ferals both and helps them get back on their feet after labs or streets or wars or whatever the hell it was that means they need someone who’s willing to prove they’ve got a home even if it means looking for them behind dumpsters with a flashlight in the middle of the night.” 

“A noble endeavor,” Tony ventured when Steve paused.

“That’s where I live.” His words were almost too quiet to hear, even for Tony sitting across from him. “My last name is Rogers.”

Just how Tony was supposed to react was beyond him. He didn’t bother to modulate his volume. “That’s, er, nice?” Tony began, “I mean, I knew you were fresh out of the labs, and I don’t have anything against-”

With the same quiet firmness, Steve said, “ _The_ Steven Rogers.”

All the air left Tony’s lungs in a rush and he almost dropped his coffee. If it weren’t for Tony’s flail to make sure his cup didn’t hit the ground, Steve might have noticed Bruce twitch nearly as badly. Tony’s brain-to-mouth filter broke in the ensuing confusion. 

“You’re dead,” Tony told him as he scrubbed at a splotch of spilt latte on the couch arm, too loud to be anything but a spectacle. Gazes drifted in their direction and ears swiveled. 

A genuine smile spread across Steve’s face, the first since he’d walked in. “A greatly exaggerated report.” 

“Holy shit.” Tony dragged his hand down over his mouth and repeated, “Holy shit.” 

They stared at each other in silence. The other patrons in the coffee shop not hidden in their nooks grew bored after it became apparent that Tony wasn’t going to entertain them and drifted back to their own business. 

Tony, however, had a minor reality crisis as he sat across from who had, in a very real way, influenced the course of human events, for good or ill. Steven Rogers, first successful parahuman, and the inspiration and foundation of an entire industry. Steve’s original lab had gone under with him as their singular triumph, but other labs hadn’t stopped producing their versions of parahumans. Enough for parahumanity to become a cultural force over the last seventy years.

Small wonder Tony hadn’t been able to find anything on Steve. If Arctic Circle was suppressing everything recent, Tony would have to go back to the forties to find anything, something he hadn’t bothered to do considering Steve didn’t look a day over thirty. Even then, Tony already knew all he needed to. After the original lab had gone under, Steve had been lost to public record and passed from lab to lab until even Tony’s father at the height of his obsession hadn’t been able to track his whereabouts. A series of fires that had destroyed massive quantities of research and killed hundreds had been presumed to have claimed Steve’s life. 

Natasha had known about Steve, obviously, and now she stood behind her espresso machine fussing with the steamer wand as if a veritable parahuman legend hadn’t walked into her shop one day and ordered a cup of coffee. It was little wonder she’d been so protective. Steve’s continued existence boggled the mind. Tony was vindictively pleased that Bruce had trapped himself into ‘sleeping’, even if Bruce had just dug his claws into Tony’s side again.

Tony let out his breath and apologized, his volume more appropriate to a private conversation. “Sorry, wow. Sorry. You didn’t need that.” 

“I expected it,” Steve said. 

“Ah, hell.” Tony hated being predictable. “But seriously, though. That’s what your friend meant when he said the cops’d listen to you.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

“I thought you looked familiar when I first saw you, I just- damnit. I didn’t make the connection. You were in a lot of parahuman propaganda when I was a kid. You might look different in person, but I’m pretty sure you were my first crush.”

Steve hesitated. “... great?” 

“Your place or mine?” Tony asked.

“Wait, what?” Steve blinked at him. 

Bruce’s claws dug into Tony’s side hard enough to make him flinch. Tony casually swatted him in the face and grinned at Steve. 

Steve laid his ears back briefly before he shook his head and tried again, “What?” 

“Your place. Or mine? Probably mine, if you want privacy.” Tony held up a hand to forestall another of Steve’s ‘what’s’. “No, I get it. Folk hero. Seriously fucked up after way more than a lifetime lost in the system. If we’re going to fuck, these are things I need to know. In all seriousness, though, the only real question I have for you is actually: do you still want to?” 

The surprise on Steve’s face quickly shifted into something frustrated, a bare-toothed promise of violence. There was hunger, too, though, of the kind that Tony was well acquainted with, and a repeat of the level stare that had originally prompted Tony to get fancy with his pastry-eating.

Steve’s reply came out in a growl. “You don’t want me.” 

This time it was Tony’s turn for a baffled, “What?” His hackles stood and he quickly used Bruce’s face as an armrest so he wouldn’t sit up. “Why?

“More than a lifetime lost in the system,” Steve echoed Tony’s own words. “What makes you think I will find myself capable of anything approaching a normal coupling? I would hurt you.” 

The first thing that came out of Tony’s mouth was, “What did they do to you?” He didn’t need to hear Bruce’s breathed protest to know it was the wrong thing to say. 

“Enough.” Steve stood. “They did enough.” 

For all that Steve’s movements only got jerkier and more stilted the longer he remained in the coffee shop, he still replaced the chair at the original table and remembered to wave farewell to Natasha. Steve left, his tail swishing fast and hard and angry. His claws left shiny silver scratches in the door handle. Only a couple of the other patrons watched him leave, the rest tucked into their nooks or preoccupied with their laptops.

 _But I’m not fragile,_ was Tony’s first thought after he watched Steve disappear down the street. He moved his arm from Bruce’s face. “I’m not fragile.” 

Bruce fought his way upright and stared at Tony. “Holy shit.” 

It was going to take a bit for Bruce to be articulate again. Tony sighed and investigated the sting in his side. Bruce’s claws had left a row of neat holes in the fabric of his shirt. “You owe me a new shirt,” Tony groused. He finished off his coffee and, freed from Bruce’s weight, stood to steal the nearest chair again. He flipped it around, straddled it, and waited for Bruce to recover. 

Bruce stared at Tony, his bug-eye made worse by the magnification of his glasses. It was easy enough to tell when Bruce’s wits returned to him, at least. He let out his breath and turned a shrewd, no-longer-glazed stare toward the door where Steve had made his exit. One of his ears remained swiveled in Tony’s direction, waiting for the inevitable comment. 

Tony was only too happy to oblige. “I’m not fragile, Bruce.” 

“Maybe you are, compared to him,” Bruce said, tucking his feet up beneath him and scooting closer to Tony’s end of the couch and the warm spot he’d left there. “Most parahumans age. The original research that created him was decades ago and he’s still an Adonis. I am not and, no offense, neither are you.” 

“Bite your tongue.” The wry smile that sprang to Tony’s lips fell away just as quickly. “But still.” 

Bruce took the time to polish his glasses with the bottom of his shirt before he responded. “My take? Accept his warning in the spirit it was meant. He’d not worried about hurting you because of his strength.” 

Tony flattened his ears against his head in irritation. “I don’t want a ‘normal coupling’, whatever that is. I want whatever he’s got.” He rested his chin on the back of his chair.

“If he lets you near him again-” Bruce perched his glasses back on his nose. “-take it easy. You’re not going to get a quickie in the alley with this one.” 

“This one,” Tony said. A strange static tingled down the back of his neck and his heart thumped heavy in his chest. “ _This one_ , as if someone like him could be just another fling.”

“Then don’t treat him like one,” Bruce said mildly as he resettled himself on the couch for a proper nap. “If he’s worried enough that he walks out on the willing, then you’re going to have to do more than nod toward the door. You might actually have to talk about what you want to do.” 

“Talk?” Tony couldn’t help a smile, though Bruce already had his eyes closed and taken his glasses off. “Talk I can do.”


	4. Fourth

Tony pulled up short on the busy sidewalk and lashed his tail for balance. After the initial curses thrown by those that nearly tripped over him, the crowd began to flow past again without more than a few curious looks. The door to the coffee shop lay only half a dozen steps ahead, but Steve stood on the far side of the entrance, frozen much as Tony was, his hand on the wrought iron that sectioned off the coffee shop’s patio from the city’s foot traffic. 

It had become apparent over the last couple of weeks that neither wanted to relinquish the coffee shop from their territory. Tony had respected Steve’s walk-out, had kept his distance. Still, he’d be damned if he was going to stop drinking coffee. As petty as it was, Kill for a Cuppa was his coffee shop first. 

The warm scent of roasting beans drifted out of the shop each time the door opened, but the shop might as well have been on the moon. Trapped by Steve’s stare, Tony’s instincts refused to let him move a step closer.

Natasha’s iron grip on her place of business made it as close to a neutral space as was possible for parahumans, but the whole ‘neutral’ thing still depended on her patrons accepting that it wasn’t their space to claim. In trying to remain strangers with Steve, Tony still knew that every few days Steve ordered hot chocolate instead of mocha, and one of his large, golden ears twitched each time he turned a page. Steve’s presence drew Tony like a lodestone, and scraped against his feral territoriality usually kept banked by judicious coping strategies.

Tony flicked his tail, waiting for Steve to show some sort of emotion, some sign of how he wanted to proceed. Steve, however, merely watched him, his own tail ticking back and forth like a metronome. The people surrounding them both, most on their way back to work after lunch break, paid them no mind. After a minute of sustained eye contact between him and Steve, their incidental audience faded to background noise.

A drive to act grew in Tony’s gut as the minute passed, a desire to break their stalemate, and it wavered between violence and wanting to somehow mark Steve and the shop as his so this bizarre feeling of being stuck in limbo would finally come to an end. He hadn’t been this wound up over another parahuman since his brief stint in the dorms during college, and that particular incident had been the reason he re-registered as feral. And moved to an apartment of his own. And mostly kept other parahumans out of his territory and into more neutral spaces and picked up hot men at coffee shops for quickies in alleyways.

Tony roved. He was a rover. He didn’t get attached. 

Here he was, however, with intimate knowledge of Steve’s coffee preferences and a strong desire to sort out who ended up with coffee shop rights. Two weeks of ambiguity and feeling like a stranger in his own stomping grounds was bullshit. 

A cluster of college students of unusual height walked between them and broke eye contact. Tony deflated, all the anticipatory fight and challenge escaping with a faint hiss as his fur settled. He wasn’t some adolescent hopped up on puberty ready to brawl or mount in the street, no matter where his head was at the moment. Unfortunately, next thing he knew, Steve was within arm’s reach, bearing down on him. 

Tony yelped with great dignity and jumped back a foot. All the fur on his tail puffed right back out again, ruining his attempted calm. He scrambled to keep from dropping his laptop bag and wheezed out a strangled, “Holy fuck.” 

“Tony,” Steve returned the greeting, and Tony had no idea how Steve managed to look so unruffled. Every one of Tony’s territorial instincts were running up against his desire to climb Steve like a tree. Worse and worse, he could literally smell the arousal coming off of Steve like heat waves off of summer asphalt, which helped Tony’s jumpiness not at all. With the whole ‘physically imposing’ thing combined with looking like every one of Tony’s wet dreams since he was old enough to have them, Steve was holding all the cards here and Tony was all but trapped against the wrought iron of the patio railing. One of the finials jabbed him in the asscheek.

“Just shoot me,” Tony told the sky, avoiding the quite frankly ridiculous pectorals so finely showcased by Steve’s tight t-shirt. “Put me out of my misery.” 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Steve said. 

Another group of college-aged humans jostled past them, boisterous enough to push Steve well into Tony’s personal bubble. Steve caught himself before he stumbled into Tony, his hand on the railing next to him.

Tony responded to the unexpected proximity with an involuntary full-body shudder, and not the fun kind. Combined with the deeper feral territoriality, heightened sensitivity to his surroundings was not Tony’s favorite thing by any stretch of the imagination. This was worse than Steve brushing his hand. That had been a matter of startlement. This was a sensation not unlike a wave of static across his human skin. Tony’s claws dug into his laptop case. 

He snorted and sidled away from Steve the moment the humans had passed and made sure his back was no longer to the railing. Even that little bit of a breathing space soothed his need to jab his claws into Steve and reassert his right to visit neutral territory. His skin calmed.

Now all that was left was the attraction thing, and that Tony could handle. “Pretty sure we’ve been avoiding each other. I figured you made it crystal that I wasn’t supposed to get up into your business.”

Steve had very expressive eyes for someone who was otherwise not reacting at all like Tony had expected. His eyes widened, and an expression a hell of a lot like vulnerability passed behind them before Steve’s whole face shut down into frown of pure frustration. “I’ve been giving you space to process. You said,” He gave Tony a pointed look that said he hadn’t missed the shudder, “you were feral.” 

“Which means I get antsy if a specimen like you hangs out too long in my general radius without throwing down or settling out. It does not mean that I have a no-talky, no-touchy sign on my back.” Only half a lie. “What on earth do you think ‘feral’ means?” 

At confusion on Steve’s face, Tony scrubbed his hand down over his mouth and goatee and asked, “Are you seriously telling me that you have no desire at all to frogmarch me right past whatever invisible line says the Cuppa’s in your territory now?” Tony leaned back and took a good look up at the several-inch-taller Steve and offered a smile. “I mean, I want to somewhat less now that you’re not looming, but it’s a thing.” 

“I told you,” Steve said, still frowning. “I’m registered-” 

“Domestic, I know, but all parahumans claim territory.” 

Steve simply stared at him. Partway through the staring, he inclined his head slightly to the side and leaned back against the railing next to Tony. 

“No,” Tony said. 

A very faint almost-not-there-at-all smile found its way to Steve’s lips. 

Tony couldn’t decide whether or not he was okay with this. “You’re shitting me.” 

“No shitting here,” Steve said. 

“Territory’s just not a thing for you?” 

Steve watched the crowd stream by for several very long seconds before he shook his head. “How much do you know about the original gene-splicing programs?” 

“Dubiously ethical, notoriously failure-prone, mostly military contracted,” Tony said immediately. At Steve’s glance, Tony explained with a shrug, “Dear old dad was a bit of an enthusiast, hence me. He gave me a crash course in my roots.” 

Steve nodded, his gaze going to Tony’s more-or-less unique red fur, cream points, and sharply tapered ears, very different from most other strains of parahumans. After a breath, he began, “It was a super-soldier program, and the original chimeras were wolf-based. They were designed for battle, but were supposed to exploit the quirk where wolves will instinctively break up fights because it’s bad for group cohesion. Dogs do it too, and I wish I could show you some of the ‘dogs of war’ propaganda they had mouldering in the sub-basements of the labs I passed through. But canids-- they work together. Hunt together. Fight together. Pack. Family. Strategically, canine parahumans are a better choice, except where they weren’t.” 

Tony flicked his tail. Obviously they weren’t.

“There were failures,” Steve continued. “Ethically dubious doesn’t cover it. These were crimes, and by the time I was there to witness it… but canids were a dead end, research-wise. There were problems they couldn’t solve. Lifespan. Aggression.”

“Failures,” Tony said.

“We might be biased,” Steve replied. He shook his head. “But the final nail in the coffin for that particular research was that the loyalty, the strong bonds they’d been hoping to foster failed to manifest naturally. Instead the test subjects used aggression and dominance hierarchies to organize themselves. Alpha, beta… omega. Captive wolf packs, made of unrelated wolves, do the same thing. Stressed individuals competing for limited resources in an artificial setting. The lab that created me never attempted human trials with canine genes, because all of the published research of the era said the same thing, over and over. 

“Other labs continued, though, because if wolves or dogs would have worked, that’s what the military would have gotten. They already knew how to use artificial dominance to create packs, complete with the necessary bonds of loyalty. Even a stunted, mangled desire to form a pack would have served their purpose, and an ingrained ability to observe and function as a group was their grail. Claws and teeth and super-strength wouldn’t have hurt either.” 

Tony loosed a chuckle. “Someone did tell the military that the ‘tame werewolves’ they wanted were a myth, right?” 

“My research track was run concurrent to a whole bunch of canid-oriented research,” Steve said, not quite ignoring Tony, but still not acknowledging that he’d spoken. Tony lapsed back into silence. It was Steve’s turn to speak to the sky. “And my lab was focused on using cat genes instead. It still wasn’t completely ethical, but I ended up being their first and only human trial.” 

“Cats don’t do pack.” Disdain dripped from Tony’s words as he interrupted, though he tried to moderate his tone. “They’re pretty much the definition of ‘I do what I want’. What on earth did your lab hope to accomplish?” 

“Cats were domesticated, and - besides ferrets - the only carnivorous domestic creature, and most labs decided against the hyperactivity. The military wanted teeth and claws first and would utilize human psychology to force their super-soldiers together if necessary. Their reasoning? Cats domesticated themselves because it was in their best interest, and they bond with humans when they’re socialized to. The military could work with that. However, the whole territoriality had to go.” 

Tony added it all up. “You were a success.” 

Steve finally turned to look at Tony. “I was a success.” 

“You didn’t go into the military.” 

“No.” Steve shook his head as if at some question only he heard asked. “They kept me for research purposes, but apparently I’m frustratingly unique. I was exactly what they wanted, and for some reason couldn’t be duplicated.” 

“You were the _only_ success,” Tony said. He couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“They don’t really have a classification for me down at the parahuman registrar’s office,” Steve said. The faint smile had returned.

“Can I laugh at that?” Tony asked, feeling as if he’d had his lungs emptied by a luchador with gorilla arms. “That seems like something that needs to be laughed at.” 

“I do, so I don’t see why not.” Steve pushed off from the railing. “Shall we go inside?” 

Tony followed him in, feeling faintly dazed. The shop was crowded, all the nooks filled with studiers and all the couches occupied by college kids sacked out before their late afternoon classes. His tail twitched, his ears kept up a steady swivel so as not to miss anything, but his brain was grinding too hard on what Steve had told him to take anything in properly. Someone called his name from near the back and he lifted and dropped his hand automatically without registering who. He ordered without remembering what he’d ordered, and didn’t respond when Natasha asked him a question that didn’t have to do with his drink. 

Natasha narrowed her eyes and laid back her ears, said something about Steve, and left to abuse the espresso machine. 

Tony had already speculated that Steve was an altogether different breed, what with all the evidence, but the notion that the rest of the parahumans were imperfect facsimiles just sat all sorts of wrong. Tony, for one, was not a failure. The military probably thought him one, but fuck those guys. 

The only real question was what Steve thought of the rest of them.

Coming back to himself, Tony shoved his way in front of Steve to pay for them both and Maria glared at him over the register. He was fairly certain she’d just double underlined his name on her shit list, but she accepted his card with a minimum of complaints. Natasha handed Steve his drink. Tony picked his up from the counter. Even in her annoyance, Natasha still respected his request not to risk a stray touch. 

The side of his to-go cup said, _‘Your intestines are mine if you hurt him, Stark.’_ , which… fair enough. Tony would take offense to Natasha’s overprotectiveness of one golden-furred supersoldier if the side of Steve’s cup didn’t sport similar angry black loops. 

Maria and Natasha formed a united front next to the cash register, and they watched him and Steve find an empty privacy nook and seat themselves. Maria’s disapproval was tempered by the worried tic of Natasha’s tail, but neither had a comment for him beyond the admonition sharpied onto the side of his latte. The tucked-away alcove that Steve chose was more private than Tony’s usual choices, and the rumble of others’ conversation faded away almost completely beneath today’s chirrup of parahuman music. 

The book Steve had been reading off and on over the past week laid on the table between them. 

“ _The Cat Who said Cheese_? Really?” Tony asked, finally settled in. “I didn’t think kitschy murder mysteries where your thing.” 

“The detective’s moustache twitches when he’s got a hunch,” Steve said placidly. The side of his cup said ‘mocha’ in large block letters and ‘Tell him...’ in Natasha’s loopy handwriting. He covered the rest of the note up with his hand before Tony finished reading. “And his cats help him solve murders.”

“Of course they do,” Tony said. Then, because he was way beyond tact at this point, he added, “You know, Bruce floated an educated guess that you were talking literally when you said you’d hurt me. You’d have to have something physical going on to last this long and look that good.” 

“Bruce sleeps like a rock, huh?” Steve didn’t look surprised, or particularly angry, which was a relief. Tony suspected he was more observant than he let on. “And,” Steve continued, ”maybe that’s part of it, but you asked what they did to me.” 

Tony winced at the reminder. “I did. For that I apologize.” 

“Apology accepted,” Steve said. “But you have to realize. There were no such things as relationships in the labs, at least none that had any hope of lasting, and there were no methods of DNA extraction they didn’t try to get me to replicate the original splice.” 

“Jesus Christ.”

“For purposes for pleasure, my experience is limited.” The way Steve spoke was clinical, detached, and the lines on his forehead grew deep and pronounced as he drew his eyebrows together. “I don’t bring a lot to the table, and what I do bring is fucked up.” 

Tony had no idea how to respond. “Why are you even telling me this? This is some super-serious private stuff. I feel like a peeping tom, watching you while you sleep, or some sort of pervert confessor. As far as I know, I’m just a guy who hit on you inappropriately at a coffee shop. Not that I’m judging you, but- c’mon man, what are you looking for here?”

That got a smile, though a brief one. Steve lifted one shoulder in the barest suggestion of a shrug. “You are kind of a guy who hit on me inappropriately at a coffee shop, but you’re also the guy who stayed interested in me even after I threw everything at you. I figure - why not throw a little bit more and see what happens. Worst case scenario, I scare you off like I was planning.” 

“Best case scenario,” Tony lifted his cup in salute, “I continue to be interested. Which I am. Congratulations.” 

Steve twitched a smile at him, then sighed and planted his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. He spoke from between his palms and, unless Tony was hearing things, he sounded exhausted. Ears swiveled back, though not enough to indicate any emotion in particular, his voice rasped as he asked, “Why don’t you run?” 

“I’m more a drown-my-sorrows type,” Tony said, aiming for airy. “Sex, drugs, rock’n’roll. Easiest way to calm my nerves over some hypothetical damage you’ll cause me is to fuck me.” 

The chair creaked as Steve sat back again. “Was that logic?” 

Tony didn’t bother to answer such a ridiculous question. He tipped his head back drank half his latte by the time he set it back down. Tony wiped foam from his goatee with a knuckle and raised his eyebrows in query. 

“I’d like an answer,” Steve said. Firmly. Quietly. His tone sent a shiver a Tony’s spine. “To the first question. Why don’t you run?” 

A question was all in how it was asked. Tony gave Steve a lazy Cheshire grin. “Because I don’t want to.” 

“And you do only what you want,” Steve said.

“What can I say.” Tony spread his hands out to either side, palms up. “It’s like I’m a cat.” 

Thanks to their secluded nook, nobody threw any rotten fruit, though from the look on Steve’s face he was seriously considering finding a tomato. 

Tony winked at him and returned to his latte. 

Almost as if he’d forgotten it was there, Steve rediscovered his own drink, took the lid off, and polished it off in three good gulps. His throat worked as he swallowed, and Tony let himself have his moment of admiring the line of Steve’s neck. 

“So you really want to do this,” Steve said, almost as if he were angry. It was undirected anger, though, or at least not directed at Tony.

“Well,” Tony began. It was the first sign of possible hesitation Tony had shown since he started licking berries and wheat off his fingers. Steve went on full-body alert, ears up and forward, spine straight. Tony winced and continued, “I’m not saying no, don’t look at me like that. I’m saying I have questions.” 

Steve didn’t relax. “Questions.” 

“Two questions, to be precise.” 

A moment of hesitation on Steve’s part, then: “Ask.” 

“Do you want me to want to do this?” Tony asked. When Steve opened his mouth to answer, though, Tony waved him off and added, “If you’re thinking about saying you’re not sure if _you_ want to do this, that’s fine. I expect that. That’s not the question. I’m asking if you want me to keep saying I’m willing. Because I’ll stop and never mention it again if you want me to stop. That door will close until such date and time you decide to open it again. I might moon a bit, and I’m definitely not giving up the coffee shop, you don’t get that particular vinyl in the break up, but no pursuing on my part. Not an end, just… space. You might not claim territory, but I’m pretty sure parahumans universally need space.” 

At the end of Tony’s question - or rather the explanation of his question, and a long-winded one at that - Steve remained silent for long enough that Tony started to flick his tail in impatience. 

“Yes,” Steve said.

Tony reviewed his own words to figure out what question Steve had just answered. “To clarify, you mean ‘yes, continue’?”

“So help me-” Steve let out his breath in a sigh that sounded a little too close to defeat for Tony’s taste, but when he answered he looked Tony straight in the eyes. “Yes, continue.” 

“Good.” Tony took a moment to reorient. “Good, then. Second question. Do you think we’re failures?” 

“What?” 

“Failures. Parahumans who are not you. If you were the success, what does that make us?” 

“Oh,” Steve said. “That… never occurred to me.” And much to Tony’s surprise, Steve began to laugh.

Laughter looked good on Steve, no question. It loosened the stern planes of his face and gave Tony a glimpse of the how young a man Steve must have been when he’d gone through gene therapy. The flash of teeth and the breathless way he slapped at his chest, incorporating his whole body into his amusement, had Tony silently plotting just how he could get Steve into his home and into his bed. It had been years since anyone had managed that. 

Ten seconds into Steve’s loud, public laugh, though, Tony began to fidget. Even a private nook wasn’t soundproof, and Steve was being loud enough that the patrons at the public tables began to turn in their chairs to see what was going on. “Mind letting me in on the joke?” 

Breathless, with half a grin left on his face, Steve said, “I’m not the normal one. I’m the odd one out.” He spoke without judgment, tone still amused, and Tony swallowed his protest. “Pretty sure whatever it says about me on paper, I’m the fluke. Hell, with my non-registration and where I live and, and this, whatever this is, I need to bother people to go out of their way just so I can get by.” 

Steve avoided sounding sad or envious, but on ‘just so I can get by’, he dropped his eyes from Tony to his book. 

“Woah, woah-” Tony held out a hand as if he could keep Steve from following whatever avenue he had just turned down. “Just because-”

“Tony,” Steve silenced him, eyes still downcast. He flattened his palm onto the cover of his book and spoke mostly to the back of his hand. “Every parahuman living and thriving outside a lab is a success. You’ve got lives, families, culture and… places like this. You’re all, feral and domestic alike, the ones that have shaped our society and dictate its future. I’m a relic that someone broke along the way.” 

Frustrated and unsure whether contradicting Steve was the best option, Tony released a faint hiss and demanded, “Tell me what you need. If you’re sure you’re broken, then what the fuck do we do about it?” 

That gave Steve pause. His ears twitched uncertainly. “Do?” 

“Do,” Tony repeated. “Because there’s no way in hell that I want to be the kind of dick that tries to talk you out of your experiences in the labs. So the next step is: if we’re up for it, what’s the plan?” 

Skepticism radiated from Steve. His tail thumped against the bookshelf behind him. 

Tony tried to sell it. “Plan? You know, that thing that will keep us from uncovering any nasty surprises, help us avoid landmines and triggers and all the sharp pieces rattling around in your head? Plan. I’m not a mind-reader. I need direction.” 

“I’m-” Steve said. His grip tightened on his book until he began to wrinkle the pages. At the sound of paper crackling, Steve dropped the book and glanced over his shoulder and out the window. He stood. “I’m going to have to think about it.” 

“Just let me know,” Tony said. 

“I will let you know. I just need… space.” Steve swiped his book and tucked it into his back pocket and, after, didn’t seem like he could quite figure out how to say farewell. He settled for a tiny wave. “Space might work.” 

“I’m the feral, I thought I was the one who needed space.”

“All this trying to get you to run, and the first sign of something that has promise...” Steve ended with a wry laugh. “I’ll let you know.” 

Tony nodded in acquiescence and gestured to the door. “Unless you’d like me to be the one to leave.” 

“Too many people here,” Steve said. He shook himself and his tail lashed in agitation. “Next time.”

“Next time.” Tony lifted a hand in farewell, but Steve was already out the door. 

Steve had left his cup and, ever curious, Tony spun it just enough to read the inscription: ‘Tell him no! He is beyond logic!’ 

Tony would take offense, but logic and he had an open relationship that was none of Natasha’s business. Besides, Tony had an idea. Making his way to the counter, he leaned on the top of the pastry glass and stared down both Maria and Natasha’s expressions of feline disapproval. 

“Now,” he began before they could shoo him away. “I know you pride yourselves the Cuppa being essentially neutral territory.” 

The light in Natasha’s eyes changed even if Maria’s didn’t. Her ears came forward. “This is about Steve.” 

Tony nodded in confirmation. “Would you say this is the closest place Steve has to a home territory and, if so, would you be willing to make a deal for his benefit?” 

Natasha studied him for a long moment, her nostrils flaring. Him even asking her about this was a massive gamble, her protective instinct strong enough to bury him if she thought it for the best. However, Natasha was feral, too, and if anyone understood that sometimes you needed to take drastic action to accommodate needs, she did. Shooting a glance at Maria, Natasha said, “I’m listening.”


	5. Fifth

A cluster of teacups and paper to-go cups took pride of place on Steve’s table, accompanied by an additional ‘ _Cat Who…_ ’ book waiting within arm’s reach for when Steve managed to finish the one in his hands. Tony paused at the door to the Cuppa, much to the annoyance of the college students just behind him, and waited for Steve to make eye-contact before he ordered his drink and went to sit. Several days of giving Steve space had returned Tony to itchy territorial limbo, and it was more than a relief to finally walk in and get a subtle summons. 

Tony dropped into the chair across from Steve and cleared a space for his latte. The shop was mostly empty, the privacy nooks not hiding more than one or two parahumans, with Natasha alone behind the counter as the afternoon stretched into evening. The table was a four-top, and one of the extra chairs made an excellent place for Tony’s laptop bag. Getting settled, Tony spun Steve’s paper cups to read the sides. No new and interesting notes, unfortunately, but the handwriting on the sides changed several times. Steve’s books were stacked precisely at the corner and his ears twitched nervously. 

Tony couldn’t help but ask, “Waiting for me?”

“Yes,” Steve replied.

“Oh.” Tony blinked. That answer was not the answer he’d expected. “Good then.” Rather than let the moment turn awkward, he kicked back and nudged one of the extra chairs enough to rest a foot on the seat. He turned a slow, lazy smile on Steve and asked, “What’s on your mind?” 

Steve let out his breath in a steadying exhale. “Let’s make a plan.” 

All of the interest Tony had banked when Steve had walked out of their previous meeting came crashing back to the fore. He dropped his leg from the chair with a crash and leaned forward to cover his sudden need to adjust the fit of his pant leg. “A plan?” 

“It was your suggestion.” Words spoken, Steve looked far more serene than he had any right to be. “After some thought, I decided it was a worthwhile one. I only have one stipulation.” 

Tony didn’t hesitate. Plotting things out ahead of time was new, but talking was well within his wheelhouse, and anything he could do for Steve that would end with them together was alright by him. “Shoot.” 

“I need to know that I can touch you and not worry that you’ll freak out,” Steve said. “At least inside the plan, if not outside of it.” 

Tony was not proud of his reaction. He flattened his ears to his head and bristled, his tail fluffing out before he could stop himself. Memory of Steve’s innocent brush against his hand crackled up his arm like static. This was why he didn’t think, didn’t discuss. Planning was a terrible idea and he was sorry he’d had it. 

Arms folded across his chest, blatantly defensive, Tony said in a too-high tone, “Is that the deal-breaker?” 

The calm Steve projected cracked ever so slightly and the tip of his tail began to tic back and forth. “I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to touch you if I afraid you’ll-” Steve gestured at Tony.

Indecisive, Tony waffled, not quite willing to abandon his protective curl. This whole plotting-out-the-encounter wasn’t supposed to be for his sake. Denying that he melted down would be counterproductive, however, and really there was only one solution. 

Tony unfolded himself and stuck out his hand. 

“A handshake?” Steve asked.

“Just grab my arm.” Tony’s skin crawled. He wiggled his fingers to dispel the anticipatory tingles. “You want to know how someone like Bruce can be up in my space? Acclimatization. Just... grab my arm.” 

Steve huffed out a laugh and closed his hand around Tony’s forearm. The pads of his fingers dimpled Tony’s skin and his grip was… stronger. Stronger than anticipated. Tony flexed his claws free in surprise. Even though Tony had expected the whole strength thing, the amount of controlled tension he felt through the connection almost made him call the whole thing off right then. Tony hated being manhandled, and Steve was watching him like he was considering it.

“Rule one, no manhandling,” Tony said.

Steve’s expression grew briefly darker, but he nodded. “Done.” 

“Unless I say to,” Tony added, because why close doors. He couldn’t quite bring himself to grab hold of Steve in return, though, and his claws remained out. His slender tail beat a tattoo against the partition behind his chair, and he was very glad they had a privacy nook to themselves.

Steve nodded again, this time summoning up a smile to accompany the faint, uncertain look on his face.

Tony narrowed his eyes. “You’re worried that I’m worried.”

“I’m worried that you’re right to be worried.” 

Tony relaxed, consciously withdrew his claws, and curled his fingers around Steve’s pale wrist. “What are ground rules for?”

A little of the tension left Steve’s arm, and Tony loosened his hold in turn until he was more simply holding onto Steve and less clinging for dear life. He hated, sometimes, that what he wanted and what his instincts and anxieties dictated were so far apart. Hated that he required and did all sorts of odd little things that made him feel more inconvenient, more feral than anyone else he’d ever met. What friends he had were the exceptions to his entire life, and he couldn’t help but hold Steve in a little awe for holding onto Tony in public merely because he had asked.

Tony soaked in Steve’s presence. His skin warmed beneath Tony’s palm and Tony let the contact soothe his anxious litany of thoughts as each fear he had of Steve’s touch was proven wrong. Slowly, the crackle of nervous energy faded. Tony calmed by degrees until it was no longer him, his feral twitchiness, and Steve, but just him and Steve.

The coffee shop remained quiet, with only the murmur of a few students cursing their textbooks in an unseen nook somewhere. There were a few hours yet until closing time, but all of the energy of the morning crowd had been replaced by the industrious scratch of pencil against paper and the clack of laptop keyboards. 

Steve’s ears remain at a relaxed angle, his eyes slightly closed, and his tail quiescent for the moment. He gave no signs that he needed to be anywhere or do anything, and that - more than anything else - allowed Tony to accept his touch as something welcome. The twitchy feeling of many-legged anxiety crawling beneath Tony’s skin dissipated and left behind only the desire to keep hold of Steve as long as possible. Maybe do a little exploring. With his tongue. 

Across the table, Steve’s nostrils flared as Tony’s scent hit him and he began to chuckle. “That’s all it took?” 

“No,” Tony said, squeezing Steve’s wrist when Steve would have let go. “What you’re looking at is years of trial and error, countless hours with some very expensive therapists, and a lifetime of experience in dealing with the whole feral thing. It’s a little bit mental, a lot of hardwiring, and a whole hell of a lot dependent on the person on the other side of the table.”

Steve regarded their clasped arms for a long moment after Tony’s declaration. Some of the long muscles twitched in his forearm, and he flexed his fingers to release his claws just enough to let them dimple Tony’s skin. “You usually just chase your immediate interests.” 

“Lust at first sight,” Tony agreed. “I overthink less if I don’t stop to think, but we need thinking here, I think.”

The absurdity of that particular sentence wrung another small smile from Steve. Mischief in his tone, he said, “Not thinking can’t be healthy.” 

“Never said it was. It does get me laid, however.” 

“Well laid?”

“Pretty decently,” Tony hedged, “Though I don’t have any direct comparisons for you. Between thinking and unthinking.” 

Steve’s smile finally made a full appearance. “I think we can fix that.”

Tony quickly formed the opinion that Steve’s smile was the sort of deadly weapon that comic book villains used to seduce the virtuous away from their virtues. If Tony had any virtues left at all, he’d part with them for a modest sum consisting entirely of the promise in Steve’s expression. 

Letting go of Steve’s arm lest he forget the whole ‘thinking’ thing and did something to Steve that’d make Natasha to ban him for life, Tony teased, “And you say you need people to go out of their ways for _you_.”

“I really don’t consider making sure you’re going to enjoy yourself is ‘out of my way’,” Steve said.

“Then why would I consider anything you require to be out of mine?” Tony replied immediately. 

Steve looked taken aback. “Because-” he began. 

“There is no good answer to that,” Tony cut him off before he got further. “I’m the only one who gets to decide where ‘my way’ is.” 

Still troubled, Steve nodded. 

“I’ll let you know if it is, in big-boy words.” Tony watched Steve’s face as he spoke. “If I don’t, that means I don’t think it’s too much. Okay?”

The relaxed reassurance in Steve’s body language from his ‘moment’ with Tony was long since gone. Steve twitched his ears back in discomfort and said, “And I can ask for, or veto, anything.”

“No judgment, because I think you have enough evidence by now that this isn’t a one-way negotiation here, handsome.” Tony relaxed back in his chair with a lazy grin.

“Then-” Steve drew himself up in the tiny cafe chair, and Tony would have sworn he grew physically larger. He certainly cut an imposing figure. Steve let out his breath and nodded once, a sharp, decisive dip of his chin. “Then whenever you want to start.” 

“We already started.” Tony’s grin drifted several shades more roguish. “Or do you think I ask just anyone to let me feel them up in public?” 

Steve laughed again and Tony considered it a triumph that it didn’t sound uncomfortable. There might be hope yet for both of them. 

While Steve laughed, Tony rummaged in his laptop bag for a pen or a pencil. Though Tony projected a certain baseline flippancy, he was well aware how much rode on getting this whole negotiation part of their encounter-to-be somewhere into the vicinity of both ‘comprehensive’ and ‘frank’. Their conversation wasn’t really over, and to be honest he was going to need a memory aid before they were done. 

Tony ended up stealing notebook paper from the students three nooks over, and by the time he came back Steve’s laughter had quieted and his curiosity had piqued. Waggling a pencil at him, Tony asked, “Ready to hash out the details?” 

Their discussion stretched well into the twilight hours and required two more trips to the counter for refills. Each time, Maria gave Tony a hard time over the pastry counter as she took his order. 

Natasha, however, ignored him and scribbled a few more notes on the side of Steve’s mug in grease pen. Steve surreptitiously wiped each one away before Tony could read them.

At the end of the evening, Steve left first, hopped up on caffeine and with the piece of notebook paper clutched in his fist. He and Tony had covered it with notes and, bless his heart, Steve wanted to keep it to study. There were diagrams. Tony remained unrepentant.

He also remained optimistic. If Natasha still agreed to the scheme now that he had all the details worked out, then, well…

There was a lot to be optimistic about.


	6. With

Tony licked the crumbs from the pads of his fingers with tiny strokes that barely parted his lips, rough tongue rasping across his skin, and cast his gaze across the coffee shop to make sure his little show wasn’t going unnoticed. 

It wasn’t. 

Steve pretended to read at his tables near the windows, the _tapeta lucida_ of his eyes reflecting faintly in the dim each time he returned Tony’s glance. What little light there was came from the emergency sign over the door to the back, and the glimmer of streetlight that filtered in around the curtain over the door. 

They’d planned the whole ‘reading’ thing during broad daylight several days ago, but now the shop was dark and Steve had forgotten to turn the page for several long minutes. When he finally remembered, the scrape of paper against paper filled the room. The long white streaks of headlights through the lowered blinds raced across the room as a car drove past and, like contour-lines, they mapped the golden tabby ears pointed in Tony’s direction.

The space was too empty of people to be entirely comfortable, and what few noises Tony made as he licked his fingers clean of raspberries and crumbs were distractingly loud in the quiet. The shop became an empty stage awaiting their performance, and Tony could already feel the frisson of energy that sparked from his audience of one. 

Tony had promised he’d take his time. He drew each leisurely tongue-stroke out to just shy of the point of ridiculous, all the while meeting Steve’s gaze. He lipped at the webbing between his fingers suggestively, parted his digits with his tongue and lifted his eyebrows. Steve’s elongated canines flashed in the light of another passing car. That was the smile Tony’d been waiting for. 

That was the smile that told Tony that Steve was still on board, that he hadn’t gotten lost inside of his own head. These were the opening credits, the warm-up act, and the chance for Tony to go all in while Steve gave himself a chance to experience and _then_ decide.

The eye-lock between them did not waver. Much to Tony’s delight, an element of challenge crept in. Steve shifted in his chair, palm on the crotch of his jeans. Knees spread, he faced Tony and leaned on the corner of the table. He projected indolence, his tail swishing back and forth with the hurry-up-and-wait of a heavy pendulum.

The angle of Steve’s ears said, ‘Impress me’. The glimpse of his claws as he adjusted himself said, ‘I’m under control, and yet...’ The way he unbuttoned the fly of his jeans said, ‘Do continue.’ 

Tony had no shame in putting words in Steve’s mouth, among other things.

With his fingers only theoretically covered in raspberry at this point, Tony sucked his pinkie into his mouth. The breath caught in Steve’s throat, no matter how cool he was trying to be, and it was amplified by the otherwise silence. Tony smiled around his pinkie and began to pull it out of his mouth slowly, revealing a fraction of skin with every passing moment. 

Tony couldn’t look away from Steve even if he wanted to. Steve’s hand disappeared down the front of his jeans and the muscles in his arm flexed once - just once. His eye contact sent shivers down Tony’s spine, a visceral reminder that there had been a reason he’d wanted at least one quick, messy encounter with Steve in the first place. Steve looked like he wanted to pounce. 

Every one of Tony’s movements, his sounds, produced a reaction. A creak of his chair, a hitch in his breathing. Tony was having a hell of a time undoing his fly one-handed.

Lips around the tip of his pinkie, Tony paused to make a show of things. He slid his finger free of his mouth with a wet smacking noise and hummed in satisfaction as if the raspberry crumble wasn’t long gone. 

Steve stood. 

Tony paused with his ring finger partway through his lips, the tip resting on his tongue. He kept still, tried to cling to his composure as Steve stalked across the coffee shop, heavy footsteps muted by the shop’s acoustics. Keeping still was difficult, more difficult that Tony wanted it to be. Steve wore an expression of driving intensity that was both thrilling and terrifying. Tony managed to thumb the button free on his jeans - finally - and looked up at Steve through his lashes. 

This close, Steve towered over the seated Tony, and Tony’s heartbeat leapt past arousal-fast into borderline fear. The plan they’d come up with was as much for Steve’s protection as for Tony’s, but only now that Steve was standing in front of him like a wall of solid muscle did Tony really get why Steve worried. Tony might be able to put up a fight if Steve held him down, but it was very much a ‘might’. 

Heaven help him, but the uncertainty of ‘might’ only made the tightness of his jeans worse. At least his zipper proved easier to manipulate than the button. 

Steve reached down into Tony’s space with his claws not entirely retracted and halted just before he grasped Tony’s wrist. “May I?” 

“Ad-libbing already?” Tony asked, pulling his finger from his mouth, and damned if his voice wasn’t embarrassingly husky.

“You said there was room for improvisation,” Steve said. “I’m not going off script, am I?” 

“Yes, I did, and no, you’re not,” Tony said. He’d definitely said that. He also vividly remembered the frown on Steve’s face after the word ‘improvisation’ had come up. The curve of Steve’s cock was visible through his fly just about at eye level and Tony kept his hands to himself by virtue of curiosity. Steve wore a smile, and a mischievous one at that.

Hand hovering inches from Tony’s skin, Steve showed every indication he was willing to wait until Tony gave the word.

Tony released his breath. “Go ahead.” 

Steve knelt in front of Tony and took gentle hold of his wrist. He very carefully kissed each finger left to ‘clean’, the intensity of his eye-contact pinning Tony to his chair. He didn’t look away when he licked up each of Tony’s fingers from palm to claw. He didn’t look away when he brought his other hand up to massage Tony’s palm. 

And he didn’t look away when he enveloped Tony’s index finger with his mouth.

The unexpected move phased Tony for precisely as long as it took him to wrap his free hand around the back of Steve’s neck and ask, “Have I ever told you the key to improvisation?” 

Steve’s tongue was feline-rough as it curled around Tony’s finger. He pressed back against Tony’s hold on his neck and swallowed, his tongue undulating against skin already sensitive from Tony’s own ministrations. A slight head shake answered Tony’s honestly quite rhetorical question, and Steve started to pull Tony’s finger free. Tony could feel every twitch of Steve’s tongue, every small movement of his jaw, the way the muscles flexed in his neck as he tilted his head to look up at Tony in the dark. 

Tony’s hands were sensitive on a normal day— to passing touches and unexpected heat and having shit foisted onto him without preparation. That sensitivity, usually so inconvenient, felt like it was turned up to eleven and blaring classic rock from all of Tony’s favorite bands. The contrast of the inside of Steve’s mouth to the still, cool air of the shop set Tony’s senses ablaze. Between that and how very _focused_ Steve was on making sure Tony got a hell of an education on what his tongue could do, he half expected that their next step would be to break script entirely. 

In the spirit of not helping matters, Tony said, “First rule of improvisation.” His finger slid free of Steve’s mouth, wet with saliva, and Steve released him. The first thing Tony did was reach to his side and pick up as many crumbs as possible from his plate. Raspberry filling smeared his fingertips. “Say, ‘yes, and...’ and roll with whatever someone throws at you.” 

Steve laughed at the fingers once more proffered in his direction. “I thought I’d just finished cleaning you off?” 

“Yes,” Tony said. “And…?” 

With another laugh, Steve let a hand over above each of Tony’s knees and asked, “Can I get a little closer?” At Tony’s nod, he pushed Tony’s knees apart and moved forward. Into Tony’s space. To kneel between Tony’s legs. As if he’d done nothing revolutionary, Steve flicked his tail playfully and opened his mouth. 

The curve of Steve’s torso rested warm against the inner plane of Tony’s thighs. Steve’s ridiculous mouth, with its overlarge lower lip and mobile expressions, was close enough to Tony’s cock that an ache of pleasurable anticipation settled in his groin and refused to leave. The glow of the exit sign made Steve’s lips especially red. The color in his cheeks was high and dark as if he’d just fallen on his knees at the end of a run.

Tony ran his thumb across the clipped hairs on the back of Steve’s neck and shivered as Steve licked his hand clean one tiny patch of skin at a time, sucking where the raspberry filling was a little too sticky even for a parahuman’s tongue. Whatever Steve was doing, it was improvisation of the most radical sort. They’d detailed dozens of outs in case things went sideways, if Steve turned dangerous or Tony turned sharp. They hadn’t covered anything like what to do with as Steve gently nibbled his way up the side of Tony’s palm, or what should happen if Tony forgot his lines. 

Though, there was a certain amount of sweet torture in Tony knowing for a fact that he was not going to have his cock sucked tonight and still hoping that Steve would decide it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. 

“I-” Tony began. He stopped when Steve scattered wet kisses on his way up Tony’s arm before finally pulling his lips down to meet Steve’s. Tony didn’t think. His mouth opened for Steve’s tongue, and he could feel Steve’s fingers on the curve of his chin angling him for a deeper kiss. Steve skimmed a hand down Tony’s thigh, not quite touching anywhere Tony wanted to be touched and Tony pulled Steve half up off his knees. It was a quick, messy study in how they fit together and when they broke apart, Tony was breathless and reeling from a first kiss that had taken them both by surprise. 

“You were saying?” Steve asked. 

Tony blinked down at Steve, who had his hand wrapped around the base of his own cock. At some point, he’d pulled himself free of the pants that were still clinging to his hips. Tony wet his lips with his tongue. Steve followed Tony’s glance down and chuckled. 

“I was saying-” Tony repeated, stalling for time. He was still stuck on the fact that Steve was very erect and very slowly stroking himself. With a sharp curse, he said, “Lift me up.”

Steve released his cock, gripped Tony’s thighs, and stood, taking Tony with him. He pulled Tony up out of his chair and set him on the table. 

Tony’s tail draped off the edge next to his leg, but the discomfort of sitting on it for the moment was eclipsed by the rush of adrenaline at being hoisted into the air. His heart pounded. He didn’t consider himself a small man in any respect, and the ease with which Steve lifted him was enough of a surprise that Tony dug his claws into Steve’s shoulders. 

“Jesus fuck.” He stared at Steve, panting, and quickly retracted his claws.

Steve stared back. A passing car cast stripes up the side of his face. He stood between Tony’s parted legs, the curve of his cock laying along the crease of Tony’s clothed thigh. His grip was just shy of painful, but, unlike Tony, he’d managed to keep his claws velveted. His tail flicked back and forth forcefully, and each swing shifted his hips enough to give Tony the impression he was a hairsbreadth away from thrusting in earnest. 

“Jeans,” Tony ordered, more than willing to take advantage of the ‘unless I tell you’ part of their no-manhandling clause. “Get my damned jeans off.” 

“Done and done.” Despite everything else, Steve’s voice remained even and, perhaps, a little amused. “I thought you’d lost your place.”

Tony laughed and he was goddamned out of breath even if Steve wasn’t. The fork rattled against the raspberry crumble plate as he shoved it back and away from the edge of the table. “I was just about ready to call ‘line’.”

Steve tried to strip Tony out of his jeans without ever letting him touch the floor. While Tony braced himself on the tabletop, Steve peeled him out of his clothes with one hand and held Tony behind one knee with the other. The attempt, while hot in theory, was awkward in practice, and before his jeans were even partway down the curve of his ass, Tony started laughing. 

With a growl of frustration, Steve said, “Ripping them would be easier.” 

“Don’t rip my Fuck-Me jeans.” Tony kicked his leg to help wriggle the fabric past his bare foot. “They make me look delicious.” 

“They do.” Steve paused in his attempt, his hand halfway down the back of Tony’s waistband. He leaned forward and tucked his lips close to Tony’s ear. In a low voice, he asked, “Permission to sample?” 

“Holy hell,” Tony said, arrested by the raspy edge in Steve’s tone. “Why the fuck not?”

Steve didn’t move, his warm breath on the side of Tony’s neck. A few of the long white wisps in Steve’s ear tickled Tony’s cheek. “That’s not a yes.”

“Fuck you,” Tony swore. “Yes goddamned please.” 

The kisses started on the soft, vulnerable skin just beneath Tony’s jaw and Steve worked his way down with excruciating care. Tony laid back on the table as Steve sucked and kissed the curve of Tony’s collarbone, only to shove his t-shirt up and begin to taste his way down the length of Tony’s sternum. Tony arched his back and pressed up against Steve’s lips, and his momentary fear that he was going to fall right off the table was laid to rest by Steve’s renewed grip on his bare hip. 

Steve left a trail of faint marks, not quite hickeys, along the bottom curve of Tony’s ribcage before he turned his hungry ministrations lower to draw teeth and tongue across Tony’s abs. When Tony hitched his hips higher in the hopes that maybe Steve wasn’t merely teasing him, Steve took the opportunity to drag his jeans off the rest of the way. Steve halted his downward progress as soon as the fabric hit the floor and dropped a single, sweet kiss onto Tony’s inner thigh. 

“A ploy?” Tony propped himself up on the table with his elbows and swore at Steve. The tip of his tail twitched.

“You were squirming. It wasn’t helping.” Steve said, tucking himself back between Tony’s legs and leaning in for another kiss. 

Tony gave him one, but after they broke he pointed out, “You didn’t exactly make me squirm less.” 

“If it hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t have minded.” 

It was hard to argue with that kind of logic, especially when Steve was close enough that Tony could feel his body radiating heat. Tony shoved himself upright to sit on the edge of the table and reached for Steve’s cock. He paused mid-reach. “Where the hell are your pants?” 

Steve wore only his too-tight t-shirt and nothing else, boxers kicked off and discarded beneath another table somewhere along with his jeans. His cock hung heavily between his legs and Tony made grabby gestures at him to encourage him closer. Stepping forward, Steve swished his tail side to side and said, “I took them off.”

“A fact that is both very obvious and very welcome.” Tony reached up to drag Steve in for another kiss. He fit Steve’s cock against his own and wrapped his hand around both. His experimental stroke elicited a grunt of pleasure out of Steve. “But-” Tony pulled his lips from Steve’s with a gasp. “We really need to move to the couch.” 

“Is that an entirely necessary part of the plan?” Steve sounded thoroughly preoccupied. His hand closed over Tony’s. 

“You don’t want to know how many health codes we’re breaking.” The only thing that kept Tony from continuing as they were was the prospect of death by coffee shop owner in the near future. Steve held both of their cocks together, his hand moving Tony’s in slow, dry strokes. It took a great deal of concentration, but Tony said, “There’s less to bleach if we move, and I promised.” 

Steve halted, his ears laid back and his expression reluctant. Tony envied the ‘probably not murderable’ status Steve enjoyed with the shop’s owners that was the only reason he actually needed to think about not pissing anyone off.

“I shoved lube between the cushions,” Tony added.

Steve’s grip tightened around them both. His other hand brushed Tony’s thigh like he was contemplating lifting again, but true to his promise of ‘no manhandling without leave’, he began to back away and toward the couch without taking Tony with him. His fingers trailed across the head of Tony’s cock as he released them. “We shouldn’t let the couch go to waste.” 

“Not after I put a sheet over it and everything.” Tony slid down off the table, his fingers still half-curled around his cock. A shudder ran down his spine the moment his feet made contact with the concrete, and he sucked in a sharp breath, tail lashing once. “Can’t have that.” 

The couch wasn’t far, not by any measure of distance, but for all of Steve’s prior eagerness, he was the one that made the trip across the shop take longer than strictly necessary. He cut Tony off between the tables, his eyes bright with reflected light, and waited like an immovable object until Tony kissed him out of the way. The second time he barred Tony’s way, Tony twitched his tail and darted to the side. His confidence in evasion depended far less on skill and far more on the careful way that Steve kept things playful, his claws never closer than a hand’s-breadth from Tony’s skin.

Steve chased him across the shop at a rapid stalk, the cool evening air thick with the scent of their collective arousal and threaded with coffee and chocolate. The thrill of being chased - and the anticipation of being caught - sped Tony’s last few steps. 

Upon reaching the couch, Tony dove a hand beneath the sheet and between the cushions, surfacing with a small bottle that he tossed at Steve. Steve’s reflexes did him proud, and he was at Tony’s side with the bottle a moment later. His fingers glimmered in the pale wash of streetlights through the blinds. Tony scrambled to drape himself belly-down over the arm of the couch, his tail in the air. 

“Get over here,” Tony said when Steve didn’t move. “I’d really prefer not to do this without you.” 

Steve rubbed his slick fingers together contemplatively. “This is going to get everywhere.”

“That’s the point.” Tony reached between his legs to stroke himself as he waited. “Hands on me. Get a move on.” 

The couch springs squeaked as Steve knelt behind Tony. “You ready?”

“Ready, willing, waiting, yes, yes, and for the love of - yes.”

Steve sounded smug. “ _I_ was sticking to the plan.” 

There was no time for Tony to reply before Steve grasped the base of Tony’s tail and smoothed lube along the insides of Tony’s thighs. The lube was warm from his hands, and from the quantity he must have used most of the bottle in one great glob. He played with Tony’s balls, massaging them while he held Tony by the tail to keep him still long enough to get into position. With a suddenness that would be more suited to a feral, he pulled down lightly on Tony’s balls and released them, then moved his lube-slicked hand to Tony’s hip. Tony groaned and clutched the side of the couch, his claws shredding through the sheet and the fabric beneath, as Steve used his weight to pin Tony to the couch arm and make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

The plane of Steve’s stomach pressed hard against Tony’s ass and he said, “Claws.”

“Do it.” Tony braced himself. 

Steve’s claws slid free of their sheaths and pricked against Tony’s skin. Arching at the shock of it, Tony bucked his hips into the arm of the couch only to have Steve yank him back against him, fit his cock between Tony’s thighs, and start to thrust. His long, slow strokes dragged against Tony’s lubed balls, across the stretch of skin behind them, and Tony’s breathing became increasingly uneven. 

A low growl started in his throat, matched in intensity with the tension in his groin, and Steve bore down harder on him, his chest to Tony’s back. He could feel Steve’s heavy breath on his shoulders, feel the sharp pain where his claws slid into Tony’s hip, and - incongruously - the brush of the fluff on the bottom of Steve’s tail against the soles of his feet. An answering growl rumbled through Steve’s chest, a near-angry challenge that sent Tony groping for his cock with his hand.

Tony found himself already slick at the base with excess lube, and he pumped himself with his fist as Steve fucked between his thighs. The click of Steve’s teeth just above his spine sent a jolt of pleasure through him, forcing him to pause in his rhythm or risk coming. Steve sensed or felt the shiver, though, and he slowed his thrusting and breathed, “Teeth?” 

“Fuck yes,” Tony said, his tone sharp. He squeezed the base of his cock. “Don’t fucking lose hold of me.” 

He thought he heard Steve laugh. A second later Steve released Tony’s tail, gripped both hips hard enough to bruise beneath the claw marks, and hauled Tony against his hips with controlled violence. Tony lost all pretense of rhythm and gripped the couch to steady himself. The respite was brief. 

Teeth sank into the skin at the base of his neck and Tony arched his back, lifting clear off the couch and upright onto his knees, only to have Steve release the bite and wrap an arm like a band of steel around his chest. Steve’s rattling growl had only gotten louder. He was tense and he scraped his teeth across Tony’s shoulder blade. The words he spoke into Tony’s ear carried an edge of fear. “I’m going to hurt you.” His claws tightened around Tony’s hip. There would be blood in the morning. “I already have.” 

Tony leaned back against him, pitted his weight against Steve’s, and managed to rock him. “Did I tell you you could?” Wanting to project unconcern, he dropped his hand to his cock again.

“No,” Steve said, but his tension slowly drained. He flexed his claws again. “Yes.” He kissed the side of Tony’s neck and thrust once between his legs. “I’m still willing if you are.” Letting Tony go, he smoothed his hand down Tony’s spine to take up a grip at the base of his tail once more.

Released, Tony bent forward again, tail twitching in Steve’s grip. “That makes two-oo-” Tony drew his ‘oo’ into a startled yelp. The spot right where his spine turned into tail lit with sensation as Steve rubbed his thumb into the nerves there and Tony let out a sloppy groan. Steve began to thrust again in earnest, the head of his cock peeping through Tony’s thighs at the end of each thrust. The slap of skin against skin echoed in the empty shop. 

Steve picked up where he’d let off with renewed vigor, crisis averted, and Tony reveled in the wet drag of cock across his skin. The thrusts became harder - needier? definitely faster - and Steve left shallow scratches down the side of Tony’s ribs where he shifted his grip. His rhythm became uneven, ragged, and he slowed just when Tony very much hoped he wouldn’t. As if Tony would object to rough. Like it wasn’t in the plan.

Tony swore at him for holding back. Rough _was_ the fucking plan. His legs quivered. His balls tightened, and the feeling of lingering right at the edge of orgasm stretched and buzzed down the muscles of his thighs. He squeezed the base of his cock and swore again.

And Steve - Steve fucking _laughed _and slammed into Tony, the very definition of rough. The jolt was enough to send Tony right over the edge, spilling onto his fingers and the couch. Steve - goddamned Steve - fucked him right through it, pumping his hips and laughing like an idiot. Tony barely had the capacity to breathe, let alone laugh. He shuddered through the pleasure and clung to the couch as his head spun.__

__It took Steve another handful of seconds before he came. He held Tony tight to his hips and leaned heavy on Tony’s back. Come shot across Tony’s thighs and Steve’s teeth scraped at the skin along Tony’s upper spine. As his final few uneven thrusts subsided and the tension eased from his hold, he pressed his face to Tony’s back and proceeded to not move at all._ _

__For several long minutes, warm, solid muscle weighed Tony down onto the couch, a not-unwelcome turn of events. He basked in the heat that radiated off of Steve, feeling loose. Drowsy. He rested, curled around the arm of the couch. Sweat stung in his scratches. Steve curled around him. At intervals, he kissed Tony’s back._ _

__Tony followed the thrum of middle-of-the-night city traffic by swivelling an ear, too lazy to do more, not yet, though come dripped down his leg and the lube had already begun to chill as it dried. The aroma of coffee had been overwhelmed, at least where Tony lay, by a thick funk of salt and iron and come. Between the scent and the claw furrows Tony had added, despite the sheet, the couch would never be the same._ _

__Much as he hated the prospect of moving, Tony twitched first, using his tail to thump Steve in the side. Steve groaned as he shoved himself upright, but Tony only slid down onto the couch itself and stretched out. Steve blinked at him, ears twitching. Tony shoved one foot between Steve’s knees and wiggled his eyebrows._ _

__There was no need for a second invitation. Steve flopped down with more elbow than strictly necessary and arranged himself around (and partially on top of) Tony, tucking Tony’s shoulder beneath his chin. He laid an arm across Tony’s chest, tangled their legs together, and twitched his ear fluff out of Tony’s face. Tony batted at it and wove his tail around Steve’s leg._ _

__Steve rested the side of his head against the side of Tony’s. He curled his tail just-so that Tony felt the brush of fur over his cock and belly, and the fluff added a layer of warmth that encouraged Tony to snuggle back._ _

__“I didn’t try to stop. At the end,” Steve said, out of the blue and into the dark. “I was trying to last a little longer.” Steve then snorted, a puff of air across Tony’s collarbone. “You have a foul mouth on you.”_ _

__“Next time I’ll put it to better use.”_ _

__Tony’s reply earned him a chuckle that he felt where Steve’s chest pressed against his arm._ _

__“We’ll plan head,” Steve agreed._ _

__Tony laughed, loud in the quiet, and drowsily tucked his head. His thoughts were messy and uncomplicated, and they mostly revolved around the simple anticipation of a ‘next time.’ And planning ahead for head._ _

__“In light of recent events,” Tony said, still on the edge of laughter, “I have come to understand your nonstandard use of the word ‘hungry’.”_ _

__“You can’t really blame me. Hunger. Wanting to fuck you into a couch. Not too big of a difference, except in context.” Steve almost sounded like he was teasing Tony, but only almost. “Out here’s it’s like having to relearn what names go with what colors all over again, only with everything.”_ _

__Enjoying his post-coital haze, Tony’s tact was as healthy as it had ever been. “I hear that’s tough for people who go parahuman late, the colors.”_ _

__“You don’t know the half of it.” Either Steve was too sleepy to care or he was genuinely amused at Tony’s roundabout way of questioning him, but he sounded like he was smiling when he said, “I was colorblind on top of the shift. I gained and lost color at random. Of all the results they got, I think me seeing a whole mess of new reds was the one that baffled them the most.”_ _

__“Jealous.” Tony yawned. “Also tired. And we need to clean.”_ _

__Steve hummed. “We do.”_ _

__“Should probably do it now.”_ _

__Rather than reply, Steve tugged the upper edge of the sheet free of the couch and let it cover them both. That was answer enough for Tony. He closed his eyes and relaxed._ _


	7. After

The screech of some unholy electronic bird ripped through the coffee shop and startled Tony to full wakefulness. He flailed against Steve’s weight, kicked at the tangle of sheet keeping them warm, and slid right off the couch onto the cold concrete. He swore.

Steve was crouched protectively over Tony before the expletive left his mouth, tail puffed to maximum and ears in constant motion. “Where the hell is it coming from?” 

If the floor wasn’t so damn cold, Tony would lie a little longer and enjoy the view of a mostly naked Steve flexing his muscles and growling. It was not to be, however, because the electronic screech grew more annoying and Tony had pinched his tail when he landed. He dragged himself to his feet and found his phone perched on the corner of pastry counter. Toggling the alarm off, he said, “Emergency wakeup alarm, in case we stayed after the last curtain. It means that the morning baking crew is due to be here in about a half hour.” 

A shiver of realization ran up Tony’s spine and he snapped his eyes to Steve’s. Together they took a good look around the shop. It was too early for much light yet, but the disaster was plain enough: rearranged tables, knocked over chairs, smears of various things drying on everything they’d touched. The whole place smelled like them and what they’d been doing.

“A half an hour,” Steve said. 

Tony allowed Steve to haul him to his feet. “Maybe less. Sometimes Natasha gets here early.”

A gleam appeared in Steve’s eye that had nothing to do with reflecting light. “A lot to do in half an hour.” 

Tony looked him up and down, all six-odd feet of impossible currently tilting his head at Tony. His tail swung back and forth in slow anticipation and his teeth gleamed in a self-satisfied grin. 

It was a tough call, but Tony decided to bite. He smiled in return. “You’ve got a plan?” 

“Say the word-” Steve held his hand out toward Tony. “-and I might have plan.” 

Tony only hoped they’d be done in time to find the bleach. 

And their pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. :) 
> 
> I can also be found at [desiderii-fic](http://desiderii-fic.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. :)


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